Postscript
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: It's a year after the final battle, and the Weasley family is still dealing with Fred's death in their own way.


A/N: For the Mount Potter Competition (8/55, prompt: black)

I.

This is her space. No one will bother Molly if they think she is too busy cooking, if she throws herself into her familiar routine like nothing is wrong, like her family is still whole and functioning normally.

But it isn't, and a year later, the tears still creep into her eyes unannounced and wanted. They fall onto the black surface of the skillet, sizzling and steaming against the heat. She tosses the heavy skillet to the back burner. She can't even focus on something she's always loved.

Molly crumples against the sink, resting her face against her palms. She has to think of her family. She has to be strong for them, even if she's breaking.

Slowly, shaking, she stands tall and straight. She can do this. She will do this.

II.

Ginny walks around the castle, trying not to think, not to feel. It seems strange that they're all going about their day like it's ordinary, even if it is a rare off day.

She comes to a stop outside the Room of Requirement. Does it still work? After what had happened a year ago, does its magic still hold?

Ginny presses a hand to the cold stone, eyes closing. Maybe it's too damaged, just like the witches and wizards who had taken refuge within its walls.

"Oh, there you are," Luna says with wide eyes and a soft smile. "Professor McGonagall says their will be a feast later in remembrance."

"I don't want to remember," Ginny grumbles. "And I don't want to feast."

Luna takes her hand gently. "It doesn't stop hurting, you know. But if you don't keep moving, the pain becomes unbearable. I don't think Fred would want you to suffer like that."

And then she's gone, leaving Ginny gaping in her wake.

III.

"Charlie!"

He pulls himself back to reality just in time to see the claws slash towards him. Charlie recoils, but too late. The rough points tear through his shirt, breaking skin. The wound is shallow, and he'll live.

"What the hell, Weasley! It's a dragon! Not a bloody puppy!"

"Sorry, sorry," Charlie mumbles, pressing his black robe over the ribbons of his shirt, trying to staunch the blood flow. "I was...thinking."

It's been a year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Still, the trauma of the war, the pain and loss are fresh in his mind as if it were only yesterday.

His friend's face softens with understanding. Charlie hadn't spoken much about the war, but everyone he worked with knew enough. "Maybe you should take some time off, mate. Clear your head. Wouldn't want to have to send your remains home, would we?"

Charlie flinches, and his friend claps a hand over his mouth. "Sorry, Charlie. I didn't-"

"It's fine," Charlie says curtly, turning away. "I'm going home."

IV.

Percy doesn't know where he's going. Maybe he doesn't care. All he knows is that he can't sit in his flat, letting the guilt find its way into his bones again. He's spent enough time hating himself, screaming at the sky to let him take Fred's place.

He wanders through the crowd. Some wear their grief like their Sunday's best. Others force smiles that Percy understands. He looks at his feet, allowing himself to be carried along.

When he looks up, he's in front of the joke shop. Guilt knots his stomach. He wants to run away, far, far away. He doesn't deserve to be so close to this place, not when it's his fault only one of the owners remains.

He's about to pull away when he sees George through the glass, dressed in magenta robes and straightening the clutter on the shelves. He shouts something over his shoulder, turning towards the blonde witch who works for him.

Percy places his hand on the glass, tears filling his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

V.

"You let me win," Hermione accuses, watching as Ron's chess pieces return to their starting position.

Ron nods. There's no use denying it. Chess is the one thing he's better at than Hermione. In truth, he could have beaten her about five moves back, but his heart isn't in it today.

He knows Hermione is trying to distract him. They all survived the war, and no one wants to think of everything they've lost. But it snakes its way back into his mind despite her best efforts.

Ron sets his pawn aside and takes Hermione's hand gently in his. "I think I want to visit Fred's grave," he says quietly.

He's tried to avoid it since the funeral. He wants to remember his brother alive and smiling, not cold and motionless. But today feels like the right time.

She smiles, pulling his hand up to her lips. "Let's go."

VI.

George forces a smile, strolling easily through the crowd. "That's right, today only!" he calls, his voice stronger than he feels. "All products are half off. Unless you're Ron. Then I'm charging you double!"

A few people laugh at that. George's smile becomes a little more solid.

He'd considered closing the shop for the day, making the anniversary a day for remembrance, for mourning. But Fred wouldn't have wanted that. He would have said the world needs a laugh more than ever now.

He turns in time to catch a glimpse of Percy at the window, looking in like he's searching for something. George crosses the length of the store and sticks his head out the door. "Oi, Percy, you prat! Get in here!"

"I don't- I can't-"

But George isn't listening. He grabs his brother by robes, jerking him inside. "Quit blaming yourself," he says sharply. "No one else does. And it's an insult to our brother's memory to mope around all bloody day."

VII.

Arthur sits in the living room, tinkering with a piece of Muggle technology. "It's called a blender," he calls to Molly.

Once, she would have given him a look. Once, she would have never let him set foot in the house with his little obsessions. Now, he thinks maybe she just wants to keep him close, even if it means tolerating his fixation.

"You put food in, press a button, and it a blends it together! Muggles are fascinating, aren't they, dear?"

"Yes, Arthur."

He looks up with a frown. There's no annoyance in her words, no impatience. Of course, he understands. He feels it too, which is the reason he's throwing himself into his old collection for the first time in months. Arthur doesn't understand life anymore, but if he can figure out why little things work, maybe it will come back to him.

Arthur sets the appliance down and rises to his feet. He walks over to her, holding her tightly as though she might vanish if he lets go. "I know," he whispers. "I miss him, too."

VIII.

Bill stares at the small, pink body in his arms, eyes wide with fascination. Only hours ago, the day had been painful. Just another reminder of everything they had been through.

Now, a new life is in his hands. A new hope. He smiles.

"She's perfect," he whispers, kissing his wife's sweat-beaded forehead.

"Victoire," Fleur says with a weak smile. "It means victory."

"Victoire," he echoes.

Because, whatever the cost, they had been victorious. They will heal and rise from the ashes, and the squirming infant in his arms is all the proof he needs.


End file.
